I thought I was the only sufferer. I was up on Penrith Beacon last week doing some survey work, and was talking to a couple of ex-booties. We got into a conversation about the aforementioned condition. I could feel the weight coming off my shoulders as I realised I wasnât the only one. Iâve had Irritable Arrse Syndrome for as long as I can remember. Itâs a condition that has one simple characteristic. I always need to have a sh*t at the worst possible times. Fair enough, youâd think, when youâre a young lad in the army and constantly find yourself with plenty of cover for impromptu shovel recces, but, for fcuks sake, Iâm a 35 year old father of three, with a reasonably responsible job. Yet I still find myself driving up the motorway, sweating like a safe-cracker, panicking about where I can pull over to have a turd. It happens at least once a week. Iâll be bimbling up the M6 listening into radio 4 and spending imaginary lottery winnings, when, BANG, I get hit by a big sh*t cramp. You know the type; it takes superhuman effort to keep your ricker shut. Thatâs when the cold sweating starts and the calculations begin. 12 Miles to Southwaite Services, can I hold it in for ten minutes? Iâm trying to think of anything but the horses head thatâs pushing me up off the seat. 6 miles. Iâve squeezed off the last fart leaving nothing but a dense gateaux blocking my rectum. 3 miles. Should make it now, but Iâm beginning to feel faint with the effort of maintaining balloon-knot integrity. Into the services and pull up at the nearest possible spot to the bogs. I walk over to trap one like Charlie fcuking Chaplin attempting the mutually exclusive pastimes of walking fast but keeping your bum cheeks tight together. Into the bog, down with the trolleys, and Iâve done it. Never mind Chariots of Fire, there is no greater feeling than beating the crap-clock. I always walk out jauntily and usually treat myself to a bit of a shake of the right leg just before I get back into the car. Like I say, I thought I was the only one until I talked to these two guys. One of the booties had me in stitches telling me about an adventure heâd had the week before. Trying to beat the crap-clock, he was negotiating the one way system in Leeds on a Friday lunchtime. He was reading a map whilst trying to drive and sit on the handbrake at the same time. He got one off before disaster struck, but said that heâd had to pull up like Starsky and Hutch outside a pub. Heâd left a vehicle full of laptops etc at a bus-stop, with the doors open. He managed to make it to the bog and almost scored a perfect hit, leaving a small, cadburys crÃ¨me egg sized deposit on the floor of Trap two. Has anyone else suffered mishaps of this nature? Booze induced sh*t-needing is not included, because it completely removes the embarrassment factor.